


Amor en Albuquerque

by PersephoneThePoet



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23815393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephoneThePoet/pseuds/PersephoneThePoet
Summary: Ignacio "Nacho" Varga found himself in a deadly balancing act: trying to build his presence in the cartel, while not disappointing his father or getting caught by his insane boss, Tuco Salamanca, and the Salamanca family. The choices he's made dig him deeper into the eventual hole of being shot dead and buried in the desert. These worries constantly weighed in his mind, until a woman walks into his father's upholstery shop, helping him envision a future without drugs, the cartel, and the Salamancas. Evelyn Myers recently relocated to Albuquerque and is trying to build a life for herself in New Mexico. A brief encounter with an upholster, Ignacio, ignites something inside her, and she cannot get the troubled man out of her thoughts. Despite their vast differences, their feelings for one another blooms like the red flowers of the kingcup cactus. Will Ignacio keep Evelyn in the dark and continue to lead two very different lives? Or is she worth the risk of trying to leave the cartel?Note: I have not yet watched season 5 of Better Call Saul, so this will be based in of seasons 1-4.
Relationships: Ignacio "Nacho" Varga/Original Character(s), Ignacio "Nacho" Varga/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all,  
> I think everyone who has watched Better Call Saul can agree that Ignacio "Nacho" Varga, played by Michael Mando, has an interesting character arc. The fact that he is a gorgeous heartthrob definitely plays a role in the fact that I am captivated by him. ;)  
> This is my very first fanfiction, as well as my first time posting my writings publicly. I welcome any constructive criticism and hope to keep consistent with new chapters.  
> Thank you for reading, and please feel free to comment!

Ignacio Varga should have listened to his father. Ignacio had lost count of how many undesirable situations in life that could have been avoided had he heeded his advice. He dwelled over past choices and briefly contemplated a life without the cartel, without the Salamancas. Showing up to the shop before the light of day came over the tops of the Sandia Mountains and spilled into the valley, reading over upholstery estimates while the shop was still quiet and chilled from the high desert nights. Working long, tireless hours with nothing more to show for it except for callous fingers softened by the movements of fabric and a meager paycheck that would pay the rent for a small house in South San Pedro or one of the nearby neighborhoods that were riddled by poverty. Seeing the proud smile of his father when it came time for Ignacio to follow in his footsteps and become the manager of A-Z Fine Upholstery, so that his father, although would never be willing to fully retire, could finally live a slower-paced life, having sacrificed and worked his entire life to build a future for him and his son. Yes, a life like his father’s would be the safe choice. Ignacio just could not bring himself to settle for such a simple life.  
  
Today was a day like any other: the summer sun beating down upon the black asphalt outside and the worn white walls of the shop, making the inside of the building as unbearable, if not more so, than that of the outside heat. An ancient air conditioning unit sat deceivingly atop of the flat roof, broken down the summer before last, and Manuel had not been able to afford the repairs. Instead, they relied upon several ceiling fans, which whirled weakly high above their heads, for relief from the never-ending August heat. Ignacio ignored the light sweat that covered him, dampening the skin above his eyebrows, underarms, and groin. The thick, sun-stiffened fabric of his uniform clung to his body, and he huffed at the memory of when his father first received the box of uniforms, quickly cutting through the tape with his keys, and pulling out a shirt, smile broadened with genuine excitement. “Mira, mijo!” Turning the shirt towards Ignacio and pointing to the embroidered breast pocket. “Now we will look like a respectable business. Here, this one is yours.” Manuel handed him another shirt with ‘Ignacio’ embroidered in black thread. The fabric felt heavy and scratchy in his fingers, and he worried, even then, how wearing them would fare as the weather warmed up. Tuning out this thought, he brought his eyes up to his father, who looked at him expectantly, and smiled. “These look great, papa. Everyone will look very professional.”  
  
Manuel was a simple man, a straight arrow. Ignacio occasionally wished he could find happiness easily, like the happiness those shirts brought his father, instead of always coveting for more: more money, more respect, more authority. Desires which had strayed him from the path his father worked to lay out for before him, and Ignacio chose the cartel, a decision which would destroy his father if he found out. Ignacio just had to ensure that his father never found out about his life away from that of a devoted son and hardworking upholsterer. The day was passing quickly, despite the seemingly endless number of orders that needed to be completed by the end of the workday. Tomorrow was Saturday, when Ignacio met up with Tuco at El Michoacáno for their weekly collections from their dealers, but more importantly, Ignacio would be meeting up with the pendejo pharmacist “Pryce” for the second time. Ignacio did not like working with someone with such naivety of the criminal life, even less so because of the old man who accompanied him, but it was easy money.: as long as Tuco didn’t find out he was dealing on the side.  
  
The crisp ring of the front door’s bell rang through to the back of the shop, interrupting his train of thought. He looked towards the counter and caught a glimpse of blonde hair before Manuel stepped forward, greeting the customer loudly.  
  
“Buenas tardes, señora. What can we do for you?” A woman’s voice answered him in soft but jarred Spanish.  
  
“Buenas tardes, señor. Yo necesito...cuero para mi carro. Cuero?” She wondered aloud to herself. “Or piel? Leather? Necesito cuero para mi carro...seats?” Manuel gave her a small, easy smile and raised his hands.  
  
“No hablo bien inglés, pero mi mijo sí.” Manuel called for Ignacio over his shoulder. “Ven aqui, mijo.” Ignacio raised his foot from the pedal and stood, stretching his stiff arms in front of him, groaning under his breath.  
  
“Ya voy, papa.” Manuel stepped to the side when Ignacio came through the doorway, revealing an attractive woman who wore a look of embarrassed uncertainty with one hand clutching a small, well-worn Spanish dictionary.  
  
“Ayuda a esta mujer, por favor.” Manuel clasped Ignacio’s shoulder and turned to grab the fabric samples from where they hung on the wall. “Ella es hermosa, she is beautiful, no?” He whispered to Ignacio with a raised eyebrow, loudly enough to be heard, and Ignacio hoped her ability to understand Spanish was as poor as her ability to speak it.  
  
Ignacio ignored his father’s comment, directing his gaze back to the woman, who met his eyes with her own blue ones, set back behind black-painted lashes. For a fleeting moment, small enough to make Ignacio doubt whether he it happened or not, her eyes flittered up and down his form, pausing at his mouth.  
  
“Hi,” she started, “I was wondering if you reupholster cars? I wanted to get a quote to redo the leather in my SUV.”  
  
“Yeah, we reupholster cars all the time.” He responded, words seeming slow to come to him. “What kind of car do you have?”  
  
“A Toyota Highlander. I really need to change out the leather. Would you want to take a look?” She gestured to the parking lot in front of the office.  
  
“Sure, let me grab some swatches for you to see.” Manuel thrust the ring of fabric samples into Ignacio’s hands, impervious to his annoyed glare.  
  
“Cuidala bien, mijo. Take good care of her, son.”  
  
The woman brought Ignacio to a newer pearlescent white SUV, and he wondered why a car like that would need new upholstery. She unlocked the car, opened the driver’s door, and stepped aside. He came forward, expecting to see torn or ruined seats, and looked slightly bewildered at the undamaged, soft black leather. A short sweep into the back seats left him no less confused. Pulling back, Ignacio turned towards the woman.  
  
“Is there a rip or tear in the leather somewhere that I’m not seeing?”  
  
“Oh, sorry, no it’s not damaged. I just need to get rid of the black leather.” Ignacio looked at her with a subtle raised eyebrow. “I can’t deal with the Albuquerque sun burning my legs,” she added quickly, unconsciously leaning to rub the back of one thigh. “It’s like sitting in a skillet.” Her comment evoked a grin from him, and he pulled a tape measure and small spiral notepad from his pant pockets.  
  
“Let me get some measurements for the seats, so I can give you a quote. Meanwhile, you can look through the swatches and see if anything catches your eye?” She nodded in agreement and took the ring from him, her fingers grazing past his. Her hands were dry and cool from the car’s air conditioning, and the small, fair hairs on the top of her hand lightly tickled his calloused palm. He raised his head and caught her staring intently at his face, the woman dropping her eyes once they met his. A passing motorcycle rumbled loudly by, and they pulled their hands away. She nervously tucked a stray curl behind the flushed top of her ear and began flipping through the samples.  
  
Ignacio walked around the back of the car to start on the passenger side and noticed she had a California license plate. He thought he heard a bit of an accent when she spoke. In between measurements, he would glance back up at her, as if she were an enigma. She was tall, probably his height, with long, strong legs and thick thighs displayed by mid-thigh jean shorts. She wore a loose-fitting, white blouse, sleeves drooping to expose her shoulders, the skin there slightly reddened by the sun and speckled with freckles. Her long, wavy hair was pulled up into a loose ponytail; fallen wisps of blonde curled at the nape of her neck, clinging to the perspiration that began to gather there. Ignacio followed the movements of her hand and noted that her left ring finger was bare. He pondered on this possibility, of her not being married, for a moment before shaking the absurd thoughts from his head and moving to the captain's seats in the back.  
  
“I never knew there were so many choices.” She bent into the cab of the car, bringing her face level to his. “I think I’ll need your opinion to help me choose.” He jotted down the last measurement, slid the notebook and measuring tape back into his pocket, and came around to where she stood, gazing contemplatively between two light-colored leathers. “I like this light grey, but wouldn’t the tan be less hot?” She moved her body closer to his, and he caught a whiff of her delicate floral perfume when she turned her head to look at him.  
  
“Honestly, when you have any kind of leather, it’s going to be hot, even with the lighter colors. Have you thought about cloth upholstery? There are a lot of really nice cloth upholstery fabrics.”  
  
“I have, but I really like how easy it is to clean leather seats, like if something gets spilled or like someone makes a mess.”  
  
“Ah,” he responded. "How many kids do you and your husband have?” The presumptive statement came out faster than his brain processed it. Smooth, he thought, internally chastising himself.  
  
“What?" She cried, voice climbing an octave. "Oh no, I'm not married. No kids either. I make enough of a mess myself as it is.” She eyed the length of her car. “ It does kind of look like a Betty Homecky soccer mom car though, doesn’t it?”  
  
Ignacio smiled despite himself, the taut muscles of his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly and he ran a hand over his shaven head. “Hey, your words, not mine.” She laughed, then directed her attention back to the fabrics.  
“I think I’m going to be stubborn and stick with leather.”  
  
“If that’s the case, tan will be cooler. Less expensive too.” The woman bit her bottom lip contemplatively, the movement of white teeth gliding against pink plump lips not escaping Ignacio’s attention, before nodding in agreement.  
  
“Okay, let’s go with that. Would it be possible to get a quote today?” Ignacio and the woman made their way into the office, and she waited patiently, studying an old photograph of him and his father on the wall, while he wrote her up an estimate.  
  
“Is this man, the one who greeted me, your dad?” Ignacio glanced up briefly.  
  
“Yes, it’s my father’s business.”  
  
“What's his name?” She inquired.  
  
“Manuel.”  
  
“Oh, I just realized I never introduced myself; I’m sorry. I’m Evelyn. Evelyn Myers.” She stuck her hand out towards him, and he clasped her hands in his, overly aware of the feeling of her skin against his as she held him in a firm grasp.  
  
“Ignacio Varga. It’s nice to meet you, Evelyn.” He tore the completed estimate away from the underlying carbon copy and slid it across the desk. “So here’s your copy of the estimate. It typically takes about a week to redo the entire interior of a car, if you can go that long without needing it. We don’t accept drop offs on the weekend, but we do open around 7 am on weekdays.”  
  
“I’ll come in Monday before work, then,” she replied, neatly folding the paper and placing it in her purse. “Thank you so much, Ignacio. Have a good weekend. Adios, Manuel!” She called out, and Manuel shot her a smile and a wave. Evelyn curtly left through the door, the bell sounding off behind her. Ignacio watched her leave, studying the swing of her hips as she walked away. Manuel came forward next to him, patting Ignacio on his upper arm.  
  
“Ella parece encantadora. She seems lovely,” his father commented.  
  
“Si,” Ignacio replied simply, turned, and returned to his sewing machine. Suddenly, he found himself looking forward to Monday morning.  
  
Evelyn got into her car and started the engine, warm air surging through the vents. She reversed and turned onto the main road, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. A faint red blush had bloomed on her cheeks, explaining the heat she had felt when she shook the upholsterer’s hand. Ignacio. She quietly repeated his name, realizing she was unable to pronounce it as smoothly as he had: the name rolling off his tongue, his full lips pursing together to form the “O”. Evelyn’s thoughts flittered back to when they stood close to each other besides the car, his dark brown eyes, flecked with gold, peering at her from beneath long, dense eyelashes. The rough texture of his fingers brushing against hers. A loud honk from the car behind her broke her from her trance, and she looked up to see that the light had turned green.  
  
“Calm the hell down,” she muttered, accelerating through the intersection. Evelyn found it difficult still to navigate through the vast city, despite having lived there for nearly four months now. New Mexico was so vastly different from northern California, and she often found herself wondering if the decision to uproot her life to Albuquerque was a mistake. She missed the lush, green forests filled with giant trees that stretched to the sky, abundant snowmelt-fed rivers and lakes, and mild, temperate weather. Who knows, maybe she would grow to find beauty in the high desert landscapes of Albuquerque. Doubtful, she thought, the barren front yards of the Quaker Heights neighborhoods passing by her window. She pulled her car up the paved drive into the garage of her new home: a modest pueblo-style single story home, its exterior a light earth-toned stucco, not unlike the neighboring houses. Entering the kitchen through the garage, Evelyn set her purse down on the kitchen counter and withdrew a Corona from the fridge, popping off the top as she made her way into the living room. She sat down on the grey sectional, careful not to disturb her sleeping calico cat, Eowyn, and kicked her shoes off to the side of the coffee table. The first sip of the cold beer felt incredibly quenching to her dry mouth, and she savored it, tilting her head back to rest on the couch cushions and looking up at the exposed wood beams on the ceiling. Her mind wandered, as it frequently did, to the past week of work.  
  
Evelyn had graduated from UCSF with her Master’s in nursing, finally achieving her goal of becoming a Nurse Practitioner, at the beginning of the year. And although she knew it would be no easy task to secure a job in her new position, several months of local job hunting yielded no results, so she broadened her search. Job offers followed shortly after, but it was Lovelace Medical Center, here in Albuquerque, that appealed to her most because of the available benefits, student loan forgiveness, and excellent pay. Everything seemed to happen quickly after she accepted the position. She rented a U-Haul, packed up all her belongings, and moved to New Mexico, her displeased cat in a carrier in the passenger seat and California in the rearview mirror. Near the beginning of her time at Lovelace, trying days were frequent but luckily, now they were few and far in between. She was a Nurse Practitioner for the inpatient trauma services, working alongside the trauma doctors and surgeons, with patients being seen for a variety of injuries: motor vehicle accidents and gunshot wounds being the most common cases. Evelyn hadn’t realized how prevalent drug trade and cartel activity was in Albuquerque until her first week of work, and was, in turn, grateful to live where she did.  
  
A local real estate agent directed her to houses in neighborhoods with lowest crime rates on the outskirts of the city and found her this house, with three bedrooms, two baths, and, most importantly, a fantastic backyard. A white stone patio extended to wrap around a deep, inground pool, inlaid with beautiful blue mosaic tiles. Two palm trees sheltered a portion of the yard with shade, and she had installed sunshades to cover the rest. Strings of cafe lights were strung between the trees and the porch covering, and when she came home from a difficult day, swimming beneath the glow of the lights, a drink set by the pool’s edge, reminded her of previous vacations in Mexico when she was in her 20s. Now 32 years old, Evelyn’s focus was shifting to making a life for herself and settling down, an endeavor that never failed to remind her how long she had been single.  
  
Meeting new friends, let alone a boyfriend, proved to be an emotionally draining task, although she had made acquaintances with a few Nurse Practitioners, Physician Assistants, and doctors, joining them for drinks after their shifts now and again. During those times out, Dr. Singh, one of the trauma surgeons, had expressed interest in her, always going out of his way to sit closest to her, telling her stories of his wildest surgeries, and offering to buy her drinks, an offer she politely declined again and again. Sure Dr. Singh was an intelligent and attractive man, tall and lean with dark eyes and hair, greying at the temples, just enough to give him a dignified look; however, she was not going to make it a habit to date within her place of work. Don’t shit where you eat, as her father used to tell her. She tried to put forth the image of an independent woman who did not need the presence of a man to make her happy, but it had been so long since she felt the security and safety of a man’s nightly embrace.  
  
The memory of Ignacio flooded her senses: the scent of leather and oil when he leaned in to look at the samples, the smooth, tanned skin on his muscular arms, the way she caught him watching her from the corner of her vision. One of her hands traveled unconsciously down her body, tracing the prominence of her collarbone, following the curvature of her breast, and sliding past the soft concave of her abdomen between her ribs, towards the dip of her belly button. Evelyn’s eyes flew open, and she pulled her hand away, both aroused and embarrassed. She took another swig of her beer, then rose from the couch to make her way to the master bathroom. She stripped off her clothes and tossed them into a heap on the tile floor, turned on the cold water, and stepped inside. Icy water sprayed against her, effectively cooling both her mind and body. When the initial shock faded, and Ignacio’s face appeared in her mind, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl with a crush, and suddenly, the prospect of seeing him again brought a sheepish smile to her face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delayed update; this chapter is dialogue-heavy, and I always seem to struggle to make dialogue flow naturally. After a weekend apart, Monday has arrived for Evelyn and Ignacio, bringing flirtations and innuendos along with it. The story continues to be a slow-burn, but don't you worry, some things are worth waiting for. ;) As always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated. I am hoping to update more regularly as I start to become more comfortable writing again.

The days Ignacio and Evelyn spent in between their encounters with each other were vastly different, one would have thought they lived in different worlds. The sun rose and set to give way for the waxing moon, each night becoming more full towards completion, but other than that similarity, and that of the ever-present thought of one another taking purchase in the back of their minds, Ignacio and Evelyn’s weekend apart were very unalike. Made lazy by the scorching weekend heat wave, Evelyn did not venture from home, like a dutiful monk not straying from a monastery, worshipping the existence of air conditioning and her pool. As the sun nearly completed its path across the sky, and the air began to cool, she laid about beneath one of the sun shades at the pool’s edge, legs dangling into the refreshing water. She had brought a medical journal along with her with every intention of reading; however, her eyes grew tired, arms heavy, and after dropping the magazine directly on her face more times than she’d like to admit, it now sat next to the margarita at her side. What a bougie bitch, she said to herself and laughed at the thought.

Yes, New Mexico was starting to grow on her. Evelyn stayed there for a while longer, looking up to the sky and watching the blues begin to shift to soft pinks and oranges, until a chill settled into her submerged legs. She got up slowly, taking her time to stretch her body, stiff from laying on the concrete, toes pruney and numb. Tomorrow was Monday, and she still had to prepare for work: laying out her hospital scrubs, making a lunch, and grinding coffee for the next morning. Evelyn wandered leisurely through the house to the bathroom, her cat jumping down from the couch to fall into step with her, upturned tail brushing against her leg. Earlier in the day, she called Albuquerque Taxi and arranged to be picked up from A-Z Fine Upholstery the following morning. She clocked in at 8 o’clock, which gave her an hour from dropping off her car to get to work, but she felt some concern about being in a time crunch gnawing away at her. 

Despite being a nurse practitioner for a few months now, and feeling increasingly confident with each passing week, Evleyn always had anxiety looming over her on the days leading up to her shifts. The fear of not knowing what she was walking into, or what patients would come through those emergency department doors, weighed on her. Would she have to deal with an insane person in drug-induced hallucinations, an elderly person with new onset confusion from a UTI, a person with multiple fractures from a motor vehicle accident? Or would it be a shift where she held pressure against an arterial bleed in a gunshot victim? Hysterical parents carrying the limb body of their unconscious child in their arms? Sometimes that weight sat on her chest like a sandbag, leaving her gasping for air, heart throbbing against her rib cage, each beat increasingly deafening in her ears. It overwhelmed her completely. Evelyn dropped the makeup wipe from her trembling hands and braced her hands on the counter. She looked up at the bathroom vanity mirror, taking in her tense and quivering form, and stared into herself, eyes wild and pupils dilated. 

“Come on, you’ve got this.” She saw her lips moving, but the words did not seem like her own. Her mind stopped spinning long enough for her to recall her therapist’s advice to ground herself when she became lost in her panic attacks. Five things. Five things she can see, hear, feel, and smell. See the marbled granite countertop. Hear the slow, monotonous dripping of the faucet. Feel the smooth tile beneath her feet. Smell the light scent of lavender hand soap. Evelyn felt her body begin to loosen, heart rate quieting, and took a deep, shuddering breath, glancing back up to her reflection. Tomorrow is going to be a good day, she reassured herself. After all, she remembered with a weak smile, she’d be seeing Ignacio again. With that realization strong in her mind, and body suddenly exhausted, she switched the light off, took a purring Eowyn into her arms, and crawled into bed. She fell asleep before the negative thoughts could return to torment her.

Daniel Wormwald. Ignacio smirked at the registration paperwork and closed the glovebox in ‘Pryce’s’ hummer, committing his name and address to memory. The information may prove to be useful later on, and he tried to always have the upper hand. Ignacio had already presumed that the pharmacist was a incompetent dumbass from their previous business transactions, but when he saw the pharmacist drive up to the site, spitting dust behind the enormous tires of the bright yellow, flame-adorned Hummer, he realized he had underestimated just how niave, and dangerous, the man was. Sure, the pills were a quick and easy sale, and the old cop’s absence made it even more tempting to screw over Pryce and continue raking in the money, but Ignacio had a bigger potential issue at hand: Tuco finding out what Ignacio was up to in his spare time. There was no room for mistakes in this game he was playing with the cartel and the Salamancas. And Pryce left a lot of room for mistakes. 

Ignacio spent the better part of that night staking out Wormwald’s place, a bland, unassuming house with piles of rocks masquerading as landscaping in front. The house mimicked the others in the row of tan suburban houses, if not for the atrocious yellow vehicle acting as a warning sign on wheels in the driveway. He surveyed Wormwald with a pair of binoculars from the comfort of his father’s Chevy truck, so as not to have his worn, red and black Chevy van recognized, and watched his movements, unobscured by drawn curtains and a well-lit interior. Wormwald left his kitchen, carrying something carefully into the living room, and set it down on a coffee table. The television screen turned on, images of African grasslands and lions feasting on prey flashing across the screen. Wormwald rested back into the couch, setting what appeared to be a TV dinner on his abdomen, fork in hand. No wife, no kids. Ignacio was not surprised. That would make the hit on Wormwald even easier. Of course, a faint voice came forth from his mind, you don’t have a wife or kids either. Hell, he hadn’t even been laid in at least six months, and even that had been a regrettable one night stand with a woman whose name he didn’t know, or care to remember. 

Sometime in February, Ignacio had found himself at a local bar, trying to drink away the lingering tension and fear after Tuco bashed in the head of one of their short-handed dealers earlier that day, the nauseating sound of Tuco’s boot stomping and cracking the man’s skull playing on repeat incessantly in Ignacio’s head. He hadn’t noticed the woman until she sat at the stool next to his, leaned over to him, breasts nearly slipping out of her low-cut top, and asked if he would buy her a drink. The rest of the night flew by in an intoxicated blur, and he awoke with a pounding migraine and unsettled stomach before he realized her presence, sprawled out nude beside him on a bed he did not recognize. He dressed quickly and quietly before slipping out of the door and starting finding his way back home. It was even longer than that since Ignacio was in an actual relationship; his desire to stay within the good graces of the cartel, therefore alive, seemed to dominate almost every aspect of his existence. And yet, his consciousness was frequently overtaken by images of Evelyn: her wide, genuine smile and vivid blue eyes . She captivated him, and that fact caused confliction of fascination and trepidation. Much to Ignacio’s annoyance, he wasn’t the only man who dwelled on Evelyn that weekend. 

“¿Ignacio, esa joven estará allí mañana- will that young woman be there tomorrow? You should take her out to a nice dinner, maybe some dancing. What was her name, Emily?” Manuel spoke loud enough to be heard over the meat sizzling on the stove. At the counter next to him, Ignacio groaned and continued slicing through peppers quickly on the worn, wooden cutting board. Some years back, they started having dinner together every Sunday, despite Ignacio’s unpredictable schedule, it stuck and became something of a weekly tradition. It invoked comforting, nostalgic memories of his late childhood and teenage years, when his father moved them from Mexico in search of a better future for himself and his only son. Life was never easy for them, and there were many nights when Manuel stayed up late, anxiously going through bills that he couldn’t understand, stomach loud and empty so his son could sleep with a full belly. At least now Ignacio could ensure that neither him nor his father would ever go hungry again.

“Did you see her eyes? You two would make beautiful children.”

“¡Basta, papa!” Ignacio cried out, dropping the knife and turning towards him. “Her name is Evelyn, and I’m not going to ask her out. Did you see that car she was driving? Do you really think she would be interested in someone like me?” A fleeting, sad expression passed over Manuel’s face, then he placed his hands on Ignacio’s shoulders. 

“Mi hijo. Quien con la esperanza vive, alegre muere: he who lives with hope dies happy. You are a good man. Any woman would be happy to have you as a husband. And besides, I saw the way she looked at you.” Manuel squeezed his shoulders before returning his attention to the dinner, leaving an unsettled Ignacio to ponder his father’s words. 

Monday morning passed too quickly for Evelyn, making her regret hitting snooze on her alarm clock three times before dragging herself out of bed. Before leaving her house, she stood before her full-length bedroom mirror and assessed her appearance: the navy, hospital-supplied scrubs hanging loosely from her body. No matter how many times she fussed with and tucked or untucked her top, nothing about it screamed ‘sex appeal’. In fact, it was at the complete opposite end of that spectrum, especially with the clunky clogs she wore that weighed down her feet. Evelyn did, however, find time to apply sheer rose lip balm and a subtle cat eye with a sweep of black eyeliner and a swipe of mascara. She spritzed her dry hair and twirled sections of her sun-kissed blonde locks around her fingers, redefining her loose curls. A glance at her wristwatch revealed the time: 0640. Well, she thought, taking another look over herself and fixing the work badge hanging from her neckline, I guess this is as good as it’s going to get. After stopping to pet Eowyn, who was asleep at the foot of her bed, she took her coffee thermos in one hand, her bag in the other, and headed out the door, a spring in her step at the prospect of seeing her favorite upholsterer again shortly. 

The chime of the driveway signal rang loudly through the interior of the shop, quiet from the absence of the humming of machines and staticky singing of the radio. Ignacio had opened the shop and was working on invoices while Ascencion, the son of one of Manuel’s closest friends, pulled fabrics for the day’s workload. Ascencion looked up towards the front when the white SUV stopped in the parking lot. Ignacio smoothed the front of his uniform, suddenly overly aware of each wrinkle. 

“I’ve got it, Chon,” he called out, making his way past the desk and out the door into the freshly cooled morning air. He slowed to a stop when he realized she was still sitting in her Highlander, unaware of his presence. Evelyn pulled her visor down, looking at her reflection in the mirror as she traced the outline of her lips with a fingertip. He watched her, transfixed, until she snapped the visor shut and turned to see him. Immediately, he looked quickly towards the road, trying to hide the hot flush of his face, hoping she hadn’t noticed him staring. Ignacio regained his composure and fixed his gaze back at Evelyn. 

“Good morning, Ignacio!” She stepped out from the car, bag in one hand, coffee in the other. Loose blonde hair fell about her shoulders and around her face, ignited like fire by the rising sun. Peeking from beneath her curls was a teal stethoscope, wrapping around the back of her neck, the silver bell and earpieces coming to rest against her chest. She wore dark, plain scrubs, and although they were apparently designed to be shapeless, Ignacio made out the soft curves of her hidden figure. She shot him a coy smile and unconsciously pushed a curl behind her ear, his focused observation of her not going unnoticed.   
“Good morning,” he finally replied, running a hand across the stubble on his scalp. “So...Are you a doctor or something?” Why couldn’t he formulate conversationally coherent sentences around her?

“A doctor? That’s sweet of you, but no. I’m a nurse practitioner. It has a lot of the responsibilities of a physician's assistant, since they both require a Master’s degree.” She saw his blank expression and quickly added, “I’m a nurse with my Master’s, basically.” Feigning understanding, Ignacio nodded. 

“Where do you work?”

“Over at Lovelace on the downtown campus. So if you ever need medical care, I’m your girl.” She gestured towards herself with her thumbs, simultaneously dying a little on the inside at the awkward gesture. Jesus. He raised an eyebrow and tried not to laugh. 

“Sounds like we have a good potential trade of goods here: I’ll upholstery whatever you want, and, in exchange, you’ll give me free, personal medical care.” Her head shot up, meeting his gaze with her fiercely gleaming eyes. Evelyn wasn’t as unsure and inexperienced as she once was, and she fought to scrape together confidence over the years of passionless and fruitful relationships. Something about Ignacio emboldened her, a new and electrifying experience that she was growing increasingly addictive to her. Ignoring the ever-lingering voice of caution trying to interject, she responded in a sultry voice, one that took her aback. 

“That can definitely be arranged. Let me know if you ever need a personal physical.” Igancio felt the head of his cock thicken with blood and twitch against the confines of his boxers. Fuck. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the crunching of tires on asphalt caught their attention as one of the other workers pulled into the lot, going around the side of the shop to park. While he thought Evelyn was distracted, Ignacio let out a deep, shaky breath he was unaware he had been holding. In reality, she had been observing his reaction: the normally animated muscles of his forehead falling lax, nostrils flaring slightly, jaw clenching. 

“I guess I ought to give you my keys and sign whatever paperwork you need,” she started again with a sheepish expression and faint blush on her face. “My taxi should be here any time.”

“Yeah, let’s go into the office.” Ignacio opened the door and gestured for her to go first, the delicate of lavender trailing behind her, wafting in his nasal passages as he inhaled her scent. She made quick work of the required forms, her signature short and illegible.

“We’ll give you a call when it’s all done. I would estimate it will be done sometime Friday.”

“Perfect, thank you Ignacio.” She removed the car key from her pocket, the metal warmed from her body heat, and slid it towards him until their fingers were only the key width apart. Eyes focused on the proximity of their hands, they silently stood facing each other across the counter for what seemed like an eternity, acutely aware of the miniscule movements and breaths of one another. Evelyn was the first to draw away, directing her attention to her watch.

“Oh shit, it’s 7:35. The taxi was supposed to be here at 7:25.” Voice panicked, she looked out the parking lot. “I’ve got to go call them. Bye, Ignacio.” She hurriedly gathered her belongings and went outside, taking her cell phone from her bag. Ignacio could not help but listen, her voice clear through the poorly sealed door, and absentmindedly ran the pad of his thumb over the ridges of her car key. “...I called and arranged this yesterday though...I would have appreciated a call at least...I cannot be late to work.” She roughly ran a hand through her roots, tugging as she pulled it through the length of her hair. “How soon could you get another driver out here?” She quieted for a moment to listen to the person on the other line, then her shoulders slumped. “That won’t work, but thank you anyway.” Flipping the phone closed, she turned back towards the shop, the mischievous glimmer gone from her eyes. 

Ignacio acted as if he hadn’t eavesdropped on her conversation, busying himself with straightening the stacks of invoices and receipts on the counter, only looking up when she came back inside. 

“Hey, I’m so sorry about this, but I’m just going to have to drop off the car tomorrow. Is that okay?” Her upset tone sparked something angry and protective inside him, the notable change in her deflated body language fueling it further. 

“Why, what’s going on?”

“Oh, you know, just an issue with the taxi, so I have to drive to work. That’s what I get for trusting the reliability of taxis.” She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. 

“I mean, you can always bring it tomorrow instead. But it probably wouldn’t be ready til after the weekend.” He glanced at the clock up on the wall. “What time do you need to be at the hospital?”

“Eight.” Ignacio contemplated for a second, drumming his fingers against the countertop.   
“One second,” he told her, returning to the back, grabbed his leather jacket off from where it laid on his station, and yelled towards the storage room. “Oye Chon, mire la tienda por mí- watch the store for me. Volveré pronto.” 

“Bueno!” Ascencion called back. 

“Come on,” Ignacio insisted, pulling his jacket on and slipping his hand inside the pocket to retrieve his keys. “Let’s go.”

“Ignacio, what…” 

“We’ve got less than twenty minutes to get you to work.” When she did not move from her spot, speechless, he picked her bag up from where it sat in front of the store and beckoned to his van. “Are you coming or not?” She gasped in understanding and quickly followed, thanking him when he opened the passenger door for her. Her disbelief faded while he walked around to the driver’s side, and she peered at the interior of his van. The cargo was barren other than a few random cartons of tools and sealed, water-stained cardboard boxes. Red and black upholstery covered the driver and passenger seat, the colors vivid in comparison to the faded, sun-bleached red and black exterior paint. Ignacio slipped into the seat beside her, and turned the key in the ignition, dense, grey smoke sputtering out of the exhaust when the vehicle rumbled to life. Once on the road, Ignacio glanced over to Evelyn, who could not stay still in her seat, and studied the interior more or ran her hand over the dash or upholstery. An odd sense of relief swept over him when he saw that her dazzling smile had returned.

“Hey, don’t be hating my ride,” he joked, turning onto the freeway. She turned to him with a look of mock shock. 

“What are you talking about? I love it! It’s so cool. Do you ever take this thing camping?” Her response garnered an expression of disbelief from Ignacio. “What?”

“I didn’t think you’d like it, that’s all. And no, I haven’t camped in it before.” 

“Shame. What you need to do is pack some firewood, blankets, and beer, of course. Find a spot in the middle of the desert, make a campfire, and lay beneath the stars, watching for shooting stars or finding constellations. Then, when it gets cold, turn in for the night in the back of your van.” 

“I don’t know, desert nights can get pretty cold,” he replied, pressing on the brake to slow into the curve of the freeway exit.

“Well that’s why you go with someone. Two people sleeping together in the back of this? Imagine the body heat.”  
He did imagine it: the two of them laying atop of blankets strewn over the metal floor, nude bodies pressed together in a feverish embrace, limbs entangled in one anothers, tasting her sweat-kissed skin, a soft gasp escaping her lips as he nipped on the hollow beneath her neck. Evelyn’s short-cut nails scraping down his shoulders to the curve of his flexed lower back, whispering his name hotly into the shell of his ear…

“Ignacio, this is the exit.” Her voice pulled his attention back to the road and the quickly approaching exit. Looking over his shoulder, he quickly merged into the turn off, throwing Evelyn off balance, her upper body coming over the center console, left arm shooting across to brace herself against Ignacio’s thigh. Her hand lingered there until she pulled it back to brush her hair back behind her face, giggling abashedly. 

“Jesus, I thought I was a crazy driver.”

“Sorry, I forgot which exit to take,” he lied, missing the heat and the pressure of her hand against his leg. 

“Do you know how to get to Lovelace from here?”

“Yeah, I’m good now.” They didn’t speak much until he pulled into the covered ‘Emergency’ entrance. Evelyn took off her seatbelt and twisted to gather her bag from the back, throwing him a grateful smile. 

“You are such a life-saver, Ignacio. You have no idea. I definitely owe you one.” 

How about we go out some time? Is what Ignacio wanted to say, but again, she left him clumsily grasping for words. The effect she had on him was unnerving; he was a man who took pride in his ability to remain collected and calculating, especially when he found himself in potentially combustible situations. This is how he managed to climb his way up the ranks from a low-level dealer to being Tuco’s right-hand man. The tall, impenetrable mental barrier he had worked years to build through indifference and self-interest turned to soft quartz sand, crumbling under her touch. Evelyn pulled a crisp ten-dollar bill from her wallet and held it between her fingers towards him. When he didn’t take it from her, she pushed it towards him.

“Come on, at least let me give you some gas money. I’m sure you don’t give just anyone a ride to work.” Ignacio brushed her hand off.  
“I offered. And it’s 7:55, so you should probably hurry.” Cursing beneath her breath, she pulled the door open and stepped out, pausing with the door opened, holding the door handle.

“Will you be there Friday? When I come to pick my car up?” She inquired, pulling her hair up into a high ponytail and securing it with the hair tie on her wrist, the short baby hairs in front of her ears falling out into whimsical, loose curls. Plans of ripping off Wormwald and meeting with Tuco fell to the back of his mind, and Friday, and the promise of seeing her again, garnered his full attention. He nodded. 

“See you Friday.” Giving a wave of her fingers, she closed the van door and hurried through the two sets of automated doors into the emergency department. Igncacio idled until she disappeared from his view, then headed back towards the shop, all the while chastising himself for missing his opportunity to ask her out. Distraction plagued him until he pulled in to the side of the shop, taking a moment to look into the rearview mirror, his signature stoney composure regaining its shroud. Releasing the buckle, he brought his thumbs to his eyes, applying pressure and rubbing his eyelids, each drag of the pad of his thumb dragging static across his vision. Ignacio’s eyes flashed open with a curt knock on the van’s driver-side window.

“Mijo,” Manuel called out, voice muffled through the glass, an expression of concern evident on his face. “¿Dónde has estado?” Ignacio turned off the ignition and got out of the car.

“Buenos días, papa. A customer had an issue with their ride to work, so I just dropped them off.” 

“¿Es eso así? Is that so?” Manuel glanced knowingly at him with a raised brow but didn’t continue on. Manuel and Ignacio started towards the shop, the morning air already growing hot, evaporating the small drops of dew from the leaves of stubborn weeds jutting from cracks in the parking lot. Ignacio remained expressionless and looked down at his feet, crushing a weed beneath the sole of his shoe and leaving a green smear against the concrete. He needed to focus on work and Wormwald, and there was still so much he needed to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have been in a bit of a writing rut with trying to create some exposition about Ignacio and Tuco's complicated relationship and how it all began. I had a difficult time with this chapter, but I'm glad to complete and post it so I may work on other, more exciting, chapters. Trigger warning: there are some upsetting, derogatory language used that I would, of course, never condone myself or anyone else using.

Ignacio leaned back in the car seat, zipping his leather jacket up to the base of his throat and pulling on his gloves, the material of the knuckles cold and stiffened. The engine of the Chevy truck was still warm and clinked and clanged as it cooled as in the morning air. From the dim light of the cab, Ignacio watched Wormald switch on the lights to his house and begin to get ready for work, shirtless and meandering between the kitchen and bedroom in too-tight off-white briefs. If it were any other day, he would already be huffing in impatience at Wormald’s sluggish movements, but Ignacio had all the time he needed: the Tuesday meetings with Tuco didn’t take place until at least noon, Tuco sleeping nearly half the day away after coke or crystal-fueled all nighters, his extravagant house filled until the early hours with deafening bass music that vibrated your skull and scantily-dress, wasted women who clung to Tuco like the gold chain around his neck. 

Ignacio lost count of how many times he found himself trapped in similar situations, smart enough to know that declining an offer from Tuco to spend the evening at his house or strip clubs could easily set off Tuco, destroying the trust Ignacio worked years to obtain. Luckily, as his own business endeavours commanded more of his free time, and Tuco’s trust in Ignacio allowed him to be more free from Tuco’s paranoid eye, those offers were becoming few and far in between. When he was younger, still naive and intoxicated with the idea of being a part of the cartel, Ignacio gladly accompanied Tuco to clubs: mind always impaired and bed never empty. Now, as the years have passed and Ignacio outgrew the irresponsibility he had once shared with Tuco, the gyrations of the women’s sweating, nearly nude bodies against his irritated him rather than turned him on, and his eyes always searching the black walls of the strip clubs in vain for a clock. While he experienced the occasional one-night stand or quick, mindless fuck in alley behind a club, head numbed and saturated with the alcohol of too many drinks, Ignacio was always tense and cautious, unwilling to let his guard down and accept others into the unconventional and unpredictable state of his life. His last serious relationship had been back in 1996, what seemed like a lifetime ago, when he thought he was a hard-ass cartel member, indestructible and irreplaceable to Tuco and the Salamancas, back before Tuco painted Ignacio’s chest and the floor of El Michoacano with the brains of Dog Paulson. 

Despite his father’s plans for Ignacio, he tumbled down the rabbit hole after befriending Tuco when he was young, isolated and berated cruelly by his peers. Go back from where you came from. You can’t even speak English. You’re nothing but a beaner. The image of Manuel’s expression of disbelief, then anger, when Ignacio asked what derogatory, racist words meant was ingrained deeply into his being. 

“Don’t pay them any attention, mijo,” his father would say, ruffling his calloused hands through Ignacio’s unruly, thick hair. “They don’t know what they are saying. They are young.” But Ignacio knew it meant something terrible, and it ate away at him every time one of the white boys would purposefully bump his shoulder as they walked past or raise their hands and complain to the teachers when they were grouped together for a project. Part of him began to despise his darkened skin and jet-black hair. The way certain English words felt thick and clunky on his tongue. His father for moving them somewhere where people blindly judged them. Everything changed for him when he started high school and met Tuco Salamanca. 

One afternoon in his freshman PE class, they were divided up into teams to play baseball. Tall, dry blades of browned grass scratched Ignacio’s ankles where he stood infield as second baseman on the makeshift baseball diamond. He flexed his damp hand in the threadbare baseball mit, eyes focused on the ball in the pitcher’s grip as he pulled it back then launched it for the batter, meeting the wooden bat with a loud ‘crack’. The ball sailed straight over the pitcher, and Ignacio shot into action, sprinting towards the outfield, head turned back to watch it’s falling trajectory. It dropped to the ground just outside of his reach and bounced once before Ignacio’s swiped it out of the air with his gloved hand, twisting his upper body to send it towards the first baseman, who caught it moments before the batter’s foot fell upon the base. 

“Out!” called Mr. Daniel’s, the PE teacher, from the sidelines. “Good pass, Ignacio!” 

“¡Órale, Nacho!”His friend, Miguel, ran up from the outfield and gave him a high-five. “Yeah, you’ve gotta be quicker than that!” Face flushed from effort and embarrassment, the batter walked past Ignacio, slamming the hard curvature of his shoulder against Ignacio’s, catching him off guard and throwing him onto the grass. 

“Watch where you’re going, wetback.” Before Ignacio had the opportunity to recover from the shock and open his mouth to respond, a loud, cold voice interjected. 

“What the fuck did you just call him?” Tuco had started to walk back from the area on the bleachers where he and his friends hung out during PE, sneaking away to smoke hand-rolled cigarettes in the shade of an oak tree, but stopped and came towards the batter. Tuco Salamanca was by no means a big teenager, the top of his head level with the batter’s shoulder, and wore button-up tops with weird, colorful patterns that looked like something a viejito would wear and boots that looked too big for his body. But no one ever messed with Tuco, and Ignacio wondered if it had something to do with the crazed look in his eyes that made Ignacio’s neck hair stand on end. 

“Mind your own business.” The batter came chest to chest with Tuco and looked down at him with a condescending smirk. “You fucking,” he enunciated each word with a push to Tuco’s chest, “wetback.” Tuco lashed out with a closed fist, connecting with his nose in a sickening crunch, resulting in an anguished scream and a stream of blood rushing down his face and onto Tuco’s hand with another punch. The boy curled his arms to cover his face from Tuco’s onslaught, falling backwards with Tuco climbing onto his body to continue his attack, clawing at the shielding hands and landing blow after blow to his chest, throat, and face. With each passing moment, the batter’s defensive motions became slower, weaker, until his head fell back into an unconscious slump, and yet, Tuco showed no signs of stopping. Rather he seemed to double his efforts, deranged laughter covering the sounds of the beating. 

Ignacio remained where he had fallen on the grass, frozen in astonishment, watching Tuco attack the boy like he had once seen a stray pitbull throttle a neighbor’s cat, shaking its fragile body between its strong, locked jaws. He felt as helpless as he had back then, crying for the dog to stop as his father beat on its head and tried to pry its jaws open with a crowbar. Finally, a neighbor ran outside of his house and shot the dog where it stood, once, twice, but still it clung onto the limp cat until it tottered over and died, meeting Ignacio’s horrified stare with a maliciousness in its eyes that slowly glazed over. Ignacio recognized those eyes now, as Tuco turned and smiled at him while the teachers clung at him with desperate fingers, trying to seperate the two boys. With one final yank, they pulled Tuco off, who shook the teachers off and glared up at them, straightened his shirt. 

“Esa puta needs to learn not to fuck with us wetbacks,” he spat, tilted his chin up at Ignacio, then proceeded to march towards the office, teachers huffing and exchanging wide-eyed glances as they struggled to bring the beaten boy to his feet. Ignacio slowly got up to his feet, stooping to pick up the forgotten baseball mitt from where it sat on the ground, sprayed with a fine mist of blood that smeared against his skin. The sound of the other teenagers, voices full of adrenaline and excitement, faded to white noise in his ears. He rubbed his fingertips together, the slick fluid spreading into the swirls and grooves of his fingerprints. The once stomach-churning sensation that settled deep into his gut transformed into something he couldn’t name. Something enticing and powerful. In the dark, primal recesses of his mind, he desired to command the respect, the fear, that Tuco had instilled into everyone around him that day . 

At 8:15, the lights in Wormald’s house turned off, and Ignacio slid further down in his seat, glancing through the area between the car door and the back window. Wormald slipped from his front door, briefcase in hand, wearing those Nike knockoffs he had worn to their meeting the other day, the atrocious canary yellow and red shoes only made unostentatious by their matching Hummer counterpart. With a roar of the engine and a billow of exhaust, Wormald backed out of the driveway and down the street, slowing to a crawl at each speed bump, as if afraid that the beast of a vehicle would be unable to clear each hump. Once he was out of sight, and the quiet, suburban street was void of any drivers or pedestrians, Ignacio quietly exited the truck and darted across the street, stealing one more glance backwards before letting himself in the backyard. Making his way up to the back door, Ignacio thrusted a screwdriver into the knob lock, drove it deeper with the cup of his palm, and twisted until the lock popped open. Ignacio smirked cockily as the door swung open before ducking into the house. No deadbolt? He kept underestimating the naivety of the man, and Wormald always delivered. 

Ignacio wandered messily through the house, knocking books off of shelves and flipping through their broken bindings in search of Wormald’s stash. He tore apart each room, stripping his bedding bare, tossing picture frames against the walls, thoroughly taking his time to enjoy every sweet second of screwing over the pharmacist. He was unsure why he adamantly disliked Wormald: was it the aura of privilege that permeated every interaction with the man? Was it a way for him to displace all of the anger and powerlessness he felt with his life so intertangled in the cartel? Or, he interjected, unwilling to delve too deeply in his own psychoanalysis, could it be the fact that the tension from being plagued with an intermittent hard-on for the past twenty-four hours fueled his hot temper? The persistent evocation of Evelyn was always boiling just beneath the surface: images of her commanding blue eyes and supple rosy lips emerging at the most inconvenient of times. Even now, as he remembered her sitting in his passenger seat, her fingers sliding up the nape of her neck and through the kinks of her hair to tie it up, his pants felt too constricting against his groin.

Irritated and aroused, Ignacio kicked out at the corner of the couch, which slid easily away from the wall. It drew his attention back to the matter at hand, and he knelt at the space between the wall and the couch that he had created, running his gloved hand against the baseboard until he felt a slight gap in the wood. The faux baseboard popped out easily with the help of the screwdriver, and Ignacio kicked the couch out further, giving his easier access to a shallow and dark hideaway. He reached in and withdrew an opaque plastic bag, pills rattling in their bottles as he opened it. Six clear, orange bottles of narcotics lay next to multiple neatly-wrapped stacks of one hundred dollar bills. Ignacio grinned and stood to leave but noticed a wooden cabinet across the room. Curiosity got the better of him, and he tugged out a drawer, letting it fall to the ground. Inside was a cardboard box holding hundreds of what looked like cards. He pulled a laminated card from the box and flipped it over between his fingers: baseball cards. His eyes flashed up to look at the large baseball scoreboard hung above the couch before looking back to the box mischievously. A minute later, he tossed the box and bag besides him on the bench seat of the truck and turned on the ignition, the truck rumbling to life and slowly making its way down the street.

***

The draft from the ceiling fans, blades drooping from years of steam and humidity from an ever-busy stove, ruffled the hundred dollar bills laid out on the chipped linoleum table top in front of Ignacio and Tuco. Ignoring the pleading glances from Alejandro, a dealer sitting across from them, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat under Tuco’s intense gaze, Ignacio took the money in hand and started counting. As he thumbed through the stack of well-worn bills, a dark smudge caught his eye, and he inconspicuously pulled it from the others. He scraped a large dark, dried blood smear off of Franklin’s forehead with his index nail, a faint metallic scent settling in the back of his throat. Ignacio exhaled slowly through his nose and looked back up at the dealer, head cocked and face stern.

“Hey, Ignacio, man,” Alejandro started, pitch of voice rising and eyes widening in panic. Ignacio gestured for him to stop with a flick of his hand, but Tuco had noticed and slammed his fists onto the table, leaned over and seized him by the starch-stiffened collar of his uniform. 

“Who the fuck are you talking to, huh? Why are you talking to him; do you think you work for him, bitch?” Tuco pulled Alejandro over the table, knocking his gun and a glass cup onto the floor. Spittle flew from his lips, splattering onto the dealer’s terrified face. He struggled to speak, words caught by Tuco’s fierce grip on his throat. Again, he looked to Ignacio, eyes wild and face turning red. “No, no, no!” Tuco started again, throwing him to the floor and kicking him in the ribs with the pointed toe of his black alligator boots. 

“Don’t look at him. He’s not going to save you. You look at me. You work,” he enunciated with another sharp blow to his abdomen, one that left Alejandro keeled over, gasping for air, “for me!” Tuco turned back to the table and pulled his Espada folding knife from his waistband, revealing the heavy, seven and a half inch blade with a flick of his fingers against the thumb plate and a sharp twist of his wrist.

“Tuco,” Ignacio interrupted, trying to maintain the illusion of being calm. Tuco directed his attention back to Ignacio, chest heaving and fists clenching against the covered blade. “The money’s all here. We still have a few more accounts to go over today.” For a moment, the inside of El Michoacano was quiet, the only sounds the sizzling of frying meat in the kitchen and Alejandro’s sputtering coughs. 

Tuco’s wild, darting eyes looked back to Alejandro before settling on Ignacio. A small noise started in the base of Tuco’s throat, changing into unnerving, demented laughter. He pointed his finger at Ignacio, who tried to hide his subtle flinch at Tuco’s aggressive movement, before bringing it down in front of Alejandro’s trembling form. 

“Man, you are lucky- LUCKY- that Nacho here to keep track of time.” Tuco knelt down, twisting the gleaming blade’s tip in front of the dealer’s face. “I don’t appreciate people wasting my time. Do you think my time is worthless?” Alejandro shook his head furiously. Tuco pushed himself up off of his bruised and broken ribcage, sending sharp, stabbing pain through the man’s chest, then pulled out his chair. Tuco sat down heavily, taking a large opaque crystal from the bag and crushing it into coarse dust with his knife’s handle. Nacho looked away and crouched beside Alejandro, voice quiet but clear:

“Don’t bring us blood-covered money again. You got it?” He heard the unmistakable sound of Tuco inhaling sharply, followed by a loud pound of a fist against the table. “Leave,” Ignacio ordered. The dealer scrambled towards the door, quicker than one would expect from a man with that stature, letting it slam shut behind him, rattling against the doorframe. Ignacio squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring as he filled his lungs after releasing the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. He rose and took his seat besides Tuco, resting his hands far from the stripe of white residue on the tabletop. The heavy, cold metal of his gold necklace heightened the bounding of his heart against his chest, and although he knew it was impossible, he feared Tuco would hear the nervous galloping of his heart. 

Much had changed since the days of school-aged kids beating up the class racist who was naive enough to insult one of the Salamanca's. Some things, however, remained the same: the feral, venomous look in Tuco's eyes and his vicious temper. Ignacio wasn't the same, impressionable teenage boy he was that day in the sports field. No, his time in the cartel tarnished him, changing him from the vision of good, virtuous son his father always hoped for into something bitter and hard. It left him always thirsting for more, while desperately trying to free himself from the Salamana's poisonous grasp.


	4. Chapter 4

The white, sterile walls of hospital was a never ending labyrinth of uniform doorways and hallways. Evelyn hurried along, almost having to jog to keep up with Dr. Reddy’s long-legged strides. “Trauma Team to bed 10 in five minutes,” announced the intercom a second time, the first having been called when Evelyn and Reddy had sat down with their cafeteria lunches in hand. She immediately popped up in her chair, heart racing and empty stomach forgotten. Reddy groaned with a mouthful of food and pushed his chair away from the table, closing the lid of his takeout container. 

“Every time,” he grumbled before falling in step with Evelyn. 

“It’s busy today,” she remarked, referring to the previous two traumas they responded to since coming on shift three hours ago. Dr. Reddy looked down at her while swinging the stairwell door open, gesturing to her to go through first. 

“You would think it’s a weekend or holiday,” he agreed. They quickly shuffled down the steps, the clap of their shoes echoing up the narrow stairwell. A maintenance man stepped through the first floor door, and Evelyn shot him a quick smile before essentially pushing her way through him.

“Sorry!” she called, throwing an apologetic wince over her shoulder that did not escape Reddy. 

“I presume responding to these trauma activations still causes you some anxiety?” 

“What?” She threw open the door to the emergency department and turned to the nearest sink, roughly lathering her hands until they were pink and covered with suds. “What gives you that idea?” Reddy came next to her at the sink, wetting his long, elegant hands and washing them slowly and thoroughly alongside hers. Since she began working at Lovelace, her and Dr. Reddy had worked almost exclusively together. He had almost twenty years experience as a doctor, and his intelligence and dedication to the medical field garnered great respect from the new, unsure nurse practitioner. An ever-patient teacher, Dr. Reddy never shied away from using each unfamiliar situation as an educational opportunity, patiently explaining concepts to Evelyn. Despite verbalizing confidence in her abilities and decisions several times, he frequently sensed her anxieties that laid beneath her mask of composure. Even now, her hands trembled besides his as they patted their hands dry. He turned to her and gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“It’s only natural for these situations to cause some stress: an expected influx of adrenaline from your adrenal glands. Heart rate and respiration rates increase-” Evelyn looked over to him with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

“Thanks for the physiology lesson, Professor.” He was silent for a moment, stopping at the double doors of the emergency department entrance.

“Professor. I like the sound of that. I think that’ll be my new title. Make sure the nurses use that from now on.” Evelyn chortled, the tension slipping slightly from her shoulders, and handed him an x-large pair of gloves, then slipping on a pair herself. 

“Aren’t you cocky enough without having additional boosts to your ego?” 

“Ouch!” 

A cacophony of bustling metal, beeping monitors, and muffled voices interrupted Dr. Reddy, and the doors parted, revealing two EMTs and a nurse pushing a transport gurney, a young and bloodied man secured down with straps. Telemetry wires, IV lines, and oxygen tubing ran across his battered body, dark blood speckling the lines. Evelyn’s eyes passed over him, first seeing the unnatural angle of his left leg, then resting on his chest, noticing the uneven rise and fall of his chest as he gasped desperately for air. 

“19 year old male. Witnessed ATV crash. Approximately 40 mph. Helmet with no loss of consciousness. GCS 13. Sinus tach 140-160s. Last BP 85/40. Respirations 32. 88 percent on ten liters of oxygen. Open fracture to left leg with tourniquet proximal to the site. Trachea deviated to the left with absent sounds on the right.” The playful demeanor of Dr. Reddy gave way to one of seriousness and focus, his voice stern and clear. 

“Let’s get x rays: head, chest, and left leg. Might as well do a KUB too.” They brought the gurney alongside the operating table, and Evelyn stood at the head of the bed, cradling his neck and head in her hands. 

“Moving on my count,” she called out to the others, “One, two, three.” The patient screamed out in pain at the sudden movement, heart rate beeping faster on the monitor. On the ambulance gurney, blood had pooled beneath the place where his leg had rested. Dr. Reddy sliced through the tattered jeans with medical shears, releasing a sharp intake of breath when it exposed the entirety of damage. Bright white bone protruding from his mangled flesh, the jagged ends jutting out near his groin. 

“Prepare some O-negative and get a type and screen done?” Evelyn suggested, knowing the risk of the bone perforating the femoral artery could be disastrous. He nodded in acknowledgement, dragging his stethoscope along the abdomen and up to his chest. He rapped the tips of his drawn-together fingers against the patient’s right ribs, drawing more pained cries from the boy. “I’ll get a chest tube kit prepared,” she added helpfully. 

“Have you put in a chest tube before?” Dr. Reddy inquired, backing away to make way for the portable x ray to scan his chest. Evelyn’s heart leapt into her throat, and she swallowed dryly, anticipating his next question. 

“No.”

“No time like the present!” He pulled her in front of the x ray and pointed to the area of the right lung. “What do you see?” She studied the white opacity shown on the screen. 

“Right pneumo, possible hemothorax.” Evelyn turned to him, worry apparent on her face. “Are you sure you’re comfortable with me placing the chest tube?”

“I have complete confidence in you. And I will be here to offer assistance if you need any. I’m going to start working to stop him from hemorrhaging.” She nodded absentmindedly, thoughts moving as if through a fog of self-doubt and insecurity. Nurses bustled around the patient, starting additional lines to administer blood and boluses. Laying pale on the bed, the patient took shallow, shuddering breaths, skin pale and clammy. Instinct quelled her inner dialogue, and she called a nurse over to help prepare for the thoracostomy. Dressed in a sterile gown and gloves, she scrubbed the area of flesh and guided the scalpel to the area of flesh between the fifth and sixth ribs. Taking a deep breath to steady her hands, she started, cutting deeply into his tissue. When the tube was pushed into the pleural cavity, she secured it with sutures and helped the nurse connect the tubing to the collection container. Immediately, a copious amount of blood drained out of his chest. The monitor showed his oxygenation begin to increase and his respirations slow. Placing her stethoscope over his chest, she heard air rushing into his now inflated lung. Head feeling light, she released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in that moment of focus and drew her attention back to Dr. Reddy at the foot of the bed, surprised to find he was already looking at her. 

“Good job, Evelyn.” 

At any other moment, she would have become flushed, mind turning to mush under praise, but they weren’t done yet. Acknowledging him with a quick nod, she went to him, working feverishly to stabilize the young man by his side. 

“Great, my sandwich is soggy,”Dr. Reddy grumbled, eyeing the lunch despairingly. Not paying him much mind, Evelyn was preoccupied, trying to skewer the tines of her fork through a wilted spinach leaf in her salad, and mumbled a generic sound of affirmation in reply to his statement. The young man had been stabilized and sent to the ICU an hour ago, but she couldn’t concentrate on anything at hand, to be honest. Her heart’s beats thumped in her ears, skin prickling from the fine sheen of sweat drying in the cool air of the cafeteria. She felt electric. Heightened by the adrenaline still pumping through her body, her confidence surged, and she felt she could accomplish anything. Mind, reeling in a licit high, dwelled on the anticipation of potentially seeing Ignacio again, and what their meeting could entail. 

It had been a long time since she was last romantically involved with someone. Too long, she sometimes thinks, when the emptiness of her house begins to mock her loneliness with silence. The silence was preferable over pointless arguments and belittling comments, she reminds herself, still unconsciously blaming herself for even allowing it to have gone on for as long as it did. Originally, it was easier to ignore the dissonant relationship when she busied herself between working and getting her Master’s. When she was completed with school, and finally had a moment to stop and realize that their once-present adoration had turned cold and distant, Evelyn accepted the first job offer: New Mexico. He didn’t make much of an effort to dissuade her, but she didn’t hold it against him. Both of them were tired, tired of trying to maintain a relationship of indifference and unresponsiveness. Her current single status left her in an ever-dueling state of self-consciousness and boldness. Right now, as she remembered the intoxicating, gritty scent of Ignacio when she sat in his passenger’s seat, her titillation was winning. 

“Evelyn?” Reddy’s concerned voice interrupted her thoughts. Eyes widening in realization, she leaned back in her chair, dropping the fork on her place. 

“Yeah?” 

“Did you hear what I said? Is something the matter?”

“What, no?” Her words came out quickly, voice getting high in refutation. He paused and regarded her for a moment, eyes flickering across her face. She shifted uneasily under his knowing stare and unwittingly twirled a fallen curl around her finger. 

“Aha! I knew it. Something is wrong,” he cried out, gesturing accusingly at Evelyn. “You have a nervous tic, and you just did it. Tell me.”

“Has anyone told you that you’re scary sometimes?”

“Don’t change the subject, and yes.” 

“...Fine,” Evelyn huffed in indigation. “There’s this...man,” she nearly whispered, “that I’m interested in.” Now it was Reddy’s turn to be uncomfortable. “And it has been so long since I’ve seen anyone, right?”

“Nevermind,” he interrupted, shaking his hands towards her, “I am not the right person for advice.” 

“Srinivas! You asked me to tell you.” 

“Nope, sorry.”

“Please, Srinivas, your opinion matters to me.” He glared at her, knowing full well that she was playing on his self-importance, and sighed. 

“Okay, so I met a man a week ago, and I feel as if we had an amazing connection immediately. You know how the air gets electrified and tense before a thunderstorm? Like that.” She ignored his rolling eyes and continued. “Anyways, I will be seeing him tomorrow, and I don’t want to miss my chance.” Evelyn felt increasingly vulnerable, and her voice softened. “I don’t even know if he’d be interested.” 

“Evelyn, you are an intelligent and capable woman. I do wish you had more confidence in yourself, but I know that can take time, years even, before you trust in yourself and follow your instincts. That is to be expected when starting any new venture in life. As it will in your professional life, so it will in your personal life. It seems you have a strong instinct drawing you to this man. Trust in your instincts, otherwise you may come to regret opportunities not taken.” A thoughtful silence between them followed, and Evelyn couldn’t contain the surge of endorphins his words had filled her with, a shy smile forming in the corner of her mouth. 

“Professor, you are so wise.” Reddy bristled at her laughter and drew himself up in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest. 

“And don’t you forget it.” 

The vibrate of her cellphone against the bathroom counter startled her, and she nearly lost the contact that had been balancing on the pad of her forefinger. An unsaved phone number, its digits indiscernible to her blurred vision, showed on the screen. She squinted, reading the number with the one eye that she’s already put the contact in, and recognized an Albuquerque zip code. Nelly was playing on the radio in the front room, the music traveling down the hall and into the bathroom. 

“...Uh, uh, let it all hang out. It’s getting hot in here.” Quickly putting in the second contact, Evelyn took the phone in hand and ran through the house. 

“So hot!” she interjected, unable to contain herself as she passed through the living room.

“So take off all your clothes-” she twisted the volume knob down and hurriedly accepted the call on the last ring. Suddenly nervous, she propped an elbow on the table and inhaled before speaking, trying to keep her tone calm and confident. 

“Hi, this is Evelyn.” After a brief lapse of silence, the heavily-accented voice of a man came across the line.

“Hello, this is Manuel at A-Z Upholstery.” While she had taken a liking to Manuel from their short encounters, he was obviously not the person she hoped would call her. Evelyn couldn’t surprise her disappointment and deflated, shoulders slouching. 

“Oh hi, Manuel,” she said in a false cheery tone, “How are you?” 

“Good, very good. Your car is ready for you.” 

“That’s great!” She glanced over at the time on the microwave: 1:25 pm. “I can be there in an hour to pick it up. Are checks okay?” Manuel told her the total cost, which Evelyn scribbled haphazardly on the back of an envelope, and then when they were saying their goodbyes, Manuel added in one final sentence.

“I may be in the back, but my son, Ignacio, will help you when you are here.” She smirked at that. If she didn’t know any better, she'd say that sweet Mr. Varga inferred something more than just professional courtesy. Politely ending the call, Evelyn straightened up and turned the volume back up, singing along once she recognized it as Jimmy Eat World. 

“¿Mijo, estas ocupado?” His father’s sudden grip on Ignacio’s shoulder caught him off guard, and the quizzical look that crossed Manuel’s face revealed that he had noticed his son jump beneath his hand. A metal pin caught the path of the unattended sewing needle, and the machine jammed with a loud, shaking halt. “¿Estás bien?”

Ignacio raised his shoe from the foot pedal, looking down at the pattern he was selling, the broken tip of the needle jutting upwards. “¡Claro está!”

“Bueno, yo tengo algo que hacer. ¿Ayudará a algún cliente?”

“Si papa.” Manuel shot Ignacio another concerned look and patted his shoulder again before turning and going out the front door, the bell ringing as it closed behind him. Ignacio regarded the sewing machine a moment longer, then stood and extended his arms above his head, only now realizing the tension that had settled into his neck and shoulders. It had been two hours since Mike pulled out of the parking lot in his ancient sedan, the old man pausing to adjust his rearview mirror to lock stares with Ignacio, a threat present in those grey, unwavering eyes. A chill had coursed down his spine when his father called to him earlier to reveal Mike behind the counter, here, at his father’s shop. He thought he was finished with the man: their business concluded. Wormald had unwisely chosen to do away with his bodyguard, a pleasant surprise for Ignacio during their last meeting. After all, he wouldn’t have been able to discover “Pryce’s” identity and address so easily had Mike been there. Something about the ex-cop was disconcerting to Ignacio, something that made his skin prinkle against the shirt collar at the back of his neck. This unexpected visit demonstrated that Ignacio had underestimated the man. 

The faded yellow body of a taxi pulling alongside the front door caught his attention, and he tried to brush aside the thoughts of his earlier encounter. He walked through the door between the front and back rooms, stopping to reach towards the top of the frame for one final stretch. He paused as he spotted a mane of golden hair, freed with the opening of the rear door. Evelyn stepped out of the taxi in a dress, the cornflower blue fabric ruffling around her knees in the hot breeze. When she turned and leaned into the driver’s window to hand him the fare, the back hem of the dress lifted, exposing the soft curves of her upper thighs, skin pale where the New Mexico sun doesn’t often touch. If only another gust of wind could lap against her body, lifting her dress a little higher. Instead, she straightened up and turned around, smoothing down the skirt with her palms. He raised his transfixed stare- being caught ogling would only make it more awkward- before she came through the door. 

Evelyn acted as if she didn’t see Ignacio peering at her through the glass, his hot stare sending flutters through her abdomen, and shot him a bright smile. She fanned out her finger on the counter, overly aware of the twelve inches of worn laminate that separated them. They both looked down where their hands lie, and there was a miniscule, forward-reaching twitch in his index finger. She traced the movement to the flexing of tendons, yearning to palpate the raised tributaries of his veins traveling up the length of his arm and wrap her fingers around the swelling of his bicep. If she noticed Ignacio watching her obvious, studious observations, she did not show it. Unabashed, she locked eyes with him, marveling at the gold flecks within his pupils, illuminated by a beam of light streaking across the room from the door. God, she had almost forgotten how handsome he was. 

“Good afternoon, Evelyn.” She loved the sound of her name when it came from his mouth, even if he was too formal with her. 

“Hey Ignacio. I got a call from your dad that my car is ready.” 

“My father must have just missed you; he was here just a moment before you arrived.”

“He said that he would be busy…” she sucked in a shallow breath, “and that you would be able to take care of me.”

From behind Evelyn, Manuel leaned over and peered conspicuously through the window, ducking out of view when Ignacio saw him. Oh, so that’s why he had asked Ignacio to watch the front. 

“Did he now?” he mumbled rhetorically under his breath. He passed his eyes over her, hesitating at her wavering, wide-eyed stare. When she noticed his studious gaze, she looked away, allowing the tendrils of her hair to fall down like a flaxen curtain about her face. Did she show others that same vulnerable expression? Something tightened painfully in his throat at that possibility, leaving him flustered. “I’m going to grab your car key from the back, then I’ll bring it around front so you can see it,” he said quickly, hurrying through the doorway.

There was a simple joy in the familiar sight of the pearlescent paint sparkling spectacularly in the sun as Ignacio pulled up along the storefront, and Ignacio stepped out of her car and held the door open, beckoning her forwards to the driver’s seat. 

“Take a look,” he encouraged gently. Evelyn reached out, her hands dancing along the leather, running along the finely sewed seams as if caressing a lover, leaving one envious of the almost intimate gesture. At least, that’s the effect it had on Ignacio, who blamed the heat that stifled him on the poorly air-conditioned shop, rather than the heat that radiated off of her, her face close enough for him to count the faint freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks. 

“The seam work is impeccable. You have talented tailors here.” She glanced back over her shoulder to ask, “Do you know who did my upholstery work? I’d like to thank them.” 

Leaning his body in to examine the leather closer, Ignacio’s chest and face were suddenly inescapably close to her back. Her skin caught fire, and she was sure she could feel each miniscule movement made by him. An amused puff of air came out from Ignacio’s nose, and he stepped back, head low and sheepish, rubbing his neck with his right hand. 

“That would be me,” he replied finally, voice soft. “And no thank you is needed.” 

She turned and regarded Ignacio with an unplaceable expression, one that concealed the nervousness that clawed at her, gnawing away the confidence she spent the last few days clinging to. Do I really want to deny myself this opportunity, she contemplated, letting her eyes peruse the curve of his protruding clavicle, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed nervously, before coming to rest on the thick feathering of his lashes, nesting beneath dark brows. Was he feeling as timorous as she was? The possibility emboldened her. 

“Should we go inside,” she offered, closing the door and stepping towards the front door of the shop. “I still need to pay you.” He hurried to open the door for her, catching the delicate scent of the perfume she had sprayed across her decollage when he had left to get her keys, and same alongside the counter next to her, trying desperately to breathe in more of her. She pulled the check out from her purse and handed it to him, letting her finger linger against his when he took it in his grasp. 

“Ignacio,” she almost whispered, sliding the tip of her finger along the ridges of his knuckle, “I would still like to thank you. Would you let me treat you to dinner sometime?” Ignacio raised his head to stare at her with widened eyes. 

“You don’t have to offer…”

“I know, but I want to,” she interrupted, unconsciously leaning towards him before catching herself, drawing both her body and hand away. “I-If you’d want to, that is. Are you free after work tonight?”

Ignacio’s smile faltered, the entrancement Evelyn cast upon him slipping as he remembered his previous conversation with Mike and the ultimatum he had set for Ignacio. Despite his weak attempt to appear blasé at the old man’s unexpected appearance and thinly-veiled threats against his family, it weighed heavily on his mind. He was juggling too many unstable and potentially dangerous situations, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that one of them was going to slip out of his grasp. Evelyn was one more ball to try to keep up in the air, but his rational thought became engulfed by the reckless desire she evoked in him. Still, the situation with Pryce needed to be settled. Tonight.

“Sorry, but I have some things I need to do after work tonight.” Her expression fell briefly before he continued. “But I’ll be free tomorrow night. How about dinner tomorrow?” Her lips pulled back into a shy smile, then she nodded quickly, her curls bouncing with the movement. How cute. 

“Tomorrow would be perfect.” They stood quietly for a minute, one trying to hide the excited smiles from the other out of embarrassment, the only sound the monotonous ticking of the ancient wall clock behind them. 

“Where do you want to go?” He inquired. 

“I still don’t know many places around here. I’m not picky; as long as they serve drinks, I’ll be fine.” He cocked an eyebrow mischievously at that. 

“Drinks? I think I can take care of that for you.” 

She held back a giggle at his now-emboldened demeanor, instead dropping her tone low and sultry. 

“They better be some good drinks, though.” A shiver danced down his spine when she leaned in closer to him. “I’m not an easy woman to please.” Ignacio swallowed thickly, his mouth suddenly dry. An abrupt ring from the phone deflated the tense, skin-prickling energy between Evelyn and Ignacio. Evelyn pulled back, hoping he did not notice the pink flush to her cheeks. He did notice. 

“I should get going; I don’t want to keep you from your other customers.” Ignacio bit at his upper lip and glanced at the phone, then back at her. “You still have my phone number, right?” She accepted his enthusiastic nod as an answer and slipped outside. The hem of her dress lifted teasingly as she slid into her car. As the realization that the sensitive skin of her inner thighs rubbed against the seams his fingers had touched, his hand twitched against the phone’s chipped plastic receiver, as if mimicking the movement of guiding fabric through the foot of the machine. Yes, he’d take care of the pharmacist and old man tonight. He didn’t want concerns over their threats to loom over their dinner tomorrow night; his only concern would be to feel the soft stroke of her fingertips against his skin again. 

“Good afternoon, A-Z Fine Upholstery. How may I help you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this first chapter! If I could get feedback: do you prefer the Spanish phrases on their own or with a translation immediately after? Trying to make it easy to read while still maintaining a flow.


End file.
